


Blind Date

by glim



Series: accidental valentine [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Blind Date, Getting Back Together, M/M, Memories, Post-Break Up, Reunions, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-25
Packaged: 2019-03-23 22:26:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13797624
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glim/pseuds/glim
Summary: "James?" Steve says, but the name sticks in his throat, because this man, his date, hisblind date, isn'tJames.





	Blind Date

**Author's Note:**

> Written for a Valentine's Day prompt 'blind date/set up by friends.’

Steve's about halfway through club soda number two, seriously reconsidering every dating choice he's ever made in his adult life, when he hears footsteps approach his table. He's been waiting twenty minutes at the back of a quiet restaurant, surrounded by Valentine's Day couples, for a blind date he assumed had decided not to show up. 

"Steven--" 

His breath catches at the sound of his name, and something long forgotten swoops up in Steve's chest and crowds his heart almost painfully tight. If he doesn't look up, he thinks, he won't have to acknowledge the word, the feeling, the dangerous way his own voice might stutter, might catch on the pain in his chest when he speaks. 

He can't though, not here, in the middle of some fancy restaurant with drinks more expensive that half the meals Steve's eaten in the past week. He lowers his eyes for a moment, then looks up. 

"James?" Steve says, but the name sticks in his throat, because this man, his date, his _blind date_ , isn't _James_. 

"You can still call me Bucky," he says.

"Right."

The smile on Bucky's face is forced, a little painful. "I didn't know, I swear." 

"Sure," Steve says. "It's fine." He nods at the seat across from him, tamps down the beating of his heart and that dumb, dangerous way his breath comes short, the way it always, _always_ used to when Bucky said his name. "You should sit." 

Bucky nods, but hesitates. "We could just grab drinks and go." 

If Steve were going to etch the memory of one sound into his senses, one small, secret memory of touch, it would be Bucky saying his name, touching his cheek, telling Steve everything was going to be alright after he came back from his latest Army deployment. 

But life doesn't work that way, does it? Because while Steve can still call up that memory, he's not sure he remembers all of it the right way, the way Bucky's voice sounded, or the way his fingertips brushed against Steve's jaw, or why either of them believed some high school romance could last into their twenties or beyond. 

It's been ten years since he's heard Bucky's voice, since he's seen Bucky, and something inside Steve cracks at the realization that he can't remember everything between them. 

"Sure," he says again, and feels stupid for it. "I mean--that's fine. We can get a drink and then leave. I can probably afford only one drink, anyway." 

"Still a starving artist, Stevie?" Bucky asks, laughs, and then stops when he catches himself. 

Fuck. Steve swallows back the tightness in his throat. Never mind. It doesn't matter if he can't remember everything, he remembers _enough_. 

"Sort of. I'm still painting, but..." Steve ducks his head down, trying to evade the familiar warmth that suddenly flashes in Bucky's eyes. "I'm a college professor now. Art history and museum studies," he says, "over at NYU." 

"I knew you'd do us all proud one day. I'm working at VA." 

"Physical therapy, Sam said, right?"

"Right. It's a good job, great to work with other vets..." 

Steve nods, and god, what the hell are they going to talk about all night? Work? Nobody wants to hear the trials and tribulations of working in academia, and Steve's not even sure how to start talking about that kind of thing with Bucky anymore. He's not sure he can recall what they used to talk about when they spent all their days together, when they lived their lives in each other's pockets. 

"Steve," Bucky says, voice low and strained, but before he can finish, their waiter comes by to take their drinks order. Bucky looks relieved, orders himself one of the fancy draft beers, and then glances at Steve. "You still like a good IPA?"

That thing, that indefinable, half-horrible, half-wonderful thing swoops in Steve's chest again, and he gives a nod. 

"Right, the bourbon ale for me, and the best IPA you have on tap for my date." Bucky gives the waiter a quick smile, then gives Steve one, too. He and the waiter discuss the drinks for a few minutes, and Steve just finds himself watching and listening. 

_Fuck_. Fuck Sam for setting them up on a blind date, fuck the world for turning in a way that brought them back to each other tonight, fuck everything, but especially fuck the way Steve's heart is starting to truly _remember_. 

Bucky's older, of course, they're both ten years older, right in their early thirties, and life has changed them. But Bucky still looks like Bucky, like the kid who grew up two apartments down from Steve, who helped Steve with his math homework when Steve was too sick to come to school after a bout of the flu; like they handsome guy who slipped his hand inside Steve's on the walk home from school one warm, rainy day in April their sophomore year of high school; the man who kissed Steve breathless, who made promises against Steve's mouth and who believed every promise Steve made in return. 

If he thinks hard enough, if his heart can take it, Steve's starting to believe he can remember everything. 

"Steve," Bucky says again, and this time reaches across the table to touch the back of Steve's hand. "You look good. The beard," he says, and gives Steve a different kind of smile. "Really suits you."

"Thanks. You, too. Well, the hair," Steve says and laughs a little. Bucky's clean shaven, but his hair's long, loose and dark around his shoulders, and he's wearing a white button up shirt and black jeans. His eyes, though, and his smile, god, had Steve really thought he'd forgotten? "You look the same," he says before he can stop himself. 

"You, too." Bucky's hand rests against Steve's, warm and much-missed, and the tips of his fingers brush against the cuff of Steve's sweater, slip beneath to brush against his skin, too, for a brief moment. "I'm glad I didn't know it was you, because I wouldn't've come, I swear I wouldn't have, but..." 

"I know. I'm sure I would've walked away if I'd seen you sitting here. But, you didn't, Buck. You didn't walk away." 

Bucky's hand trembles, just slightly, against Steve's and he looks sad, then not so sad, then not at all sad, not when Steve slips his fingers through Bucky's and holds his hand across the table. 

"I couldn't do it, Steve. I saw your face, and your eyes, and I ... I _missed_ so much in that moment. I couldn't walk away." He lets his hair fall into his face after the confession, and the smile on his face is guarded, but genuine. 

"I'm glad. I'm--" Steve tightens his fingers around Bucky's and takes a moment to let the tightness ease from his chest. "I'm so glad, and I missed your smile, and I miss--god, Bucky, what are we doing to do? I missed _everything_." 

"We're going to have dinner at this ridiculously expensive hipster craft beer restaurant, and we're going to enjoy it, and ... maybe you'll kiss me once more, see if we still got it, Stevie." Bucky's thumb traces a soft, careful pattern along Steve's hand and he leans in a little closer. "Maybe we still have something..."

It's the middle of February in New York City, but the outside feels like a damp, springtime evening when Steve tugs Bucky out of the restaurant. He draws in a breath, and then draws Bucky in close to him against the chill that edges the air. 

"I'll walk you home," Steve murmurs. His lips barely touch Bucky's when he leans in closer, and he thinks, maybe, he shouldn't kiss him. He should wait and see if there's something more than memory between them.

But he kisses him anyway, sweet and soft and hesitant, a first kiss all over again, the brush of breath and then lips, and then the yielding sigh that Steve can recall from deep down inside him. The warmth that curls inside Steve starts in his chest and pushes him closer to Bucky, close enough that neither of them are breathing, just kissing, and their words and tongues and memories get tangled up in the desire for something new, something stronger between them.


End file.
